


how to hide a stray resurrected superhero from your parents/parental figure

by happyrobins



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brain Damage, Gen, catatonic jason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:51:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyrobins/pseuds/happyrobins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is about 95% sure the boy he found on the streets and brought home is a zombie Jason Todd. He really hopes Mrs Mac doesn’t open the closet door before Mr Wayne phones him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how to hide a stray resurrected superhero from your parents/parental figure

An entire night and not a single photo. Not even a single glimpse. Tim wonders if he’s just wasting his time.

It used to be different, before. It used to be better. The city felt smaller then, livelier, even friendlier, and he got a lot more than four or five dark, blurry pictures a week. 

It used to be so much easier to find Batman when Robin was still around.

Tim checks his watch. It’s getting late. He should head home soon. Soon… but not yet. He still has a few minutes, so he spends them sitting on the top of the tallest building he dares to climb, watching the millions of city lights glow as he remembers how, less than a year ago, his heroes used to soar in plain sight over the buildings with their capes trailing after them like banners. 

They had been so  _close_ , almost within reach. And it was so easy to snap a quick dozen photos of them illuminated bright against the smoggy sky. Now everything seems darker, and Batman slinks around the city like a ghost.

The wind shifts. It’s cool against his face and brings with it the acrid smell of the charred buildings across the river. It was a big fire, and the plume of smoke rising and slowly spreading across the night sky is even bigger. It was burning for a long time. But they were all just warehouses, so Tim doesn’t think that anyone got hurt. He hopes so, at least, as he looks at all the black smoke and chews his lip worriedly. They seem to have everything under control now—he hasn’t heard any new sirens in a while.

He went over there earlier, at the first sign of smoke and flames, in case he would find Batman. It quickly became clear that the man wasn’t showing up, but Tim had stuck around for a little while, watching. 

Even though it was a stupid idea, and he probably would’ve only gotten in the way… he had really wished he could help, somehow. He hadn’t, ultimately—the professionals were handling it okay, and he decided to leave before his clothes started smelling too much like smoke (which is always hard to hide from Mrs Mac). But that isn’t the first time he’s felt that way, like he should do something.

And definitely isn’t the last. He hasn’t even gone three blocks on his way home when he stumbles onto a mugging in progress. Two burly guys in gang colours hassling a boy that can’t be much older than Tim. 

Tim pauses at the mouth of the alleyway, listening with a frown to their threats and mocking laughter as they taunt the boy. They crowd him into a corner, shove him around a bit.

Maybe it isn’t a mugging, like Tim first thought. The boy looks a little worse-off—a street kid, he won’t have anything worth stealing. They just want to scare him and hear him squeal. He won’t, though. He doesn’t make a sound, and they’re getting impatient. Getting rougher.

Tim stays hidden around the corner and tries to think of a plan to help—he can’t just barge in without some advantage, that’d be a disaster—but he doesn’t even get time to finish assessing the situation before one of the guys shoves too hard, pushes their victim too far, and the something in the boy just snaps.

The first punch comes like lightning. There’s a  _crack_  and the one guy is down on the gritty ground, clutching his face and cursing thick and nasally. Broken nose.

The other thug reaches out to grab the boy, enraged by what happened to his buddy, but he’s too slow. The boy leaps up and grabs a metal support bar of the fire escape above his head, using it to swing himself up in the air. He lands behind his assailant, taking him down with a swift kick to the back before the guy even starts to turn around. It must hurt a lot, by the way the he cries out and collapses at the boy’s feet.

It all happened so  _fast_. No hesitation, no pausing to think. Just action and control and efficiency. Like the boy has done this countless times before.

Not wanting to stick around and see what else their easy target’s been holding back, the two would-be attackers flee out of the alleyway, wheezing and gasping in pain, so frantic to get out of there that they don’t even spare Tim a glance as they pass.

Once they’re gone Tim steps forward slowly, stunned by what he’s just seen.

This isn’t some homeless street kid. This isn’t just anybody. This is…

“Robin,” Tim says breathlessly, smiling bigger than he has in a long time. “ _Jason_.”

There’s no response from the boy. No reaction at all. He stands there in front of Tim and doesn’t say a word. He isn’t even breathing hard from taking those guys down.

Tim lifts up his camera and for a moment he just stares at the sight of Jason framed in the viewfinder, hardly daring to believe it can be true. 

 _How_  can it be true? Robin died. Jason’s supposed to be dead. There was a funeral. There’s a grave. Tim’s been there a few times.

Jason stares right back, expressionless. His face is smudged with dirt, his hair is shaggy and hasn’t been washed in a while. Neither have his clothes, all ragged and muddy. He’s obviously been living on the streets for a long time.

But it’s him, it  _has_  to be. No one could do that jump, and that flip, and that kick without proper training. Tim’s seen Robin do those exact moves dozens of times. There’s no question.

The burst of light from the flash is blinding in the dim alleyway when Tim snaps the picture. Jason’s eyes go wide at the too-bright light and he makes a hoarse, wordless noise of fear, then he bolts. Takes off deeper down the alleyway in a sprint like he’s running for his life.

“Wait!” Tim shouts pleadingly, chasing after him. “I’m sorry!” It was just a camera flash, he didn’t expect Jason to get so spooked. Something’s wrong, really wrong. “Come back! Please, Jason—I just want to talk to you!”

 

—

 

He wonders if Jason’s just a hallucination.

It’s scary to think about, that he might be losing his mind. He might be chasing a figment of his own imagination between these rotting buildings.

He doesn’t think he’s hallucinating. He’s never before, and most of the hallucinogen-obsessed villains are safely locked away last he heard. But he knows it’s much more likely that his mind is somehow playing a mean trick on him than it is that Jason Todd has risen from the grave.

People don’t just  _do_  that.

But then again, Jason isn’t  _anyone_. He’s Robin. He’s a superhero.

Tim isn’t really sure what to believe at this point. Whether Jason’s a hallucination caused by his own mind or one of those gasses Gotham’s villains like to spray around the city sometimes, whether it’s a crazy dream or whether it’s some test or trap or conspiracy… it doesn’t matter.

Strange things happen in Gotham. Maybe this is just a strange miracle.

 

—

 

Tim stops at a dead end. Panting, he takes a few seconds to catch his breath and look around. Jason has to be around here somewhere—there’s nowhere else he could have gone.

He finds the boy curled up in a makeshift little shelter between the dumpster and the brick wall of the building behind. It’s a dark, narrow space, like an animal den.

“Jason… I know it’s you,” says Tim, crouching by the entrance to the shelter. “I need to talk to you. Please come out.”

“You’re wasting your time, boy,” someone says gruffly, and Tim’s so startled he nearly jumps out of his skin. He turns and finds out that the pile of cardboard and rags in the corner is actually a person, a scruffy old man with a beard and a large collection of empty bottles. “He don’t talk. Don’t listen much, either. Good at stealin’ food, though. Always got plenty to share with other folks.”

Jason still hasn’t budged or said a word, just sits with his back stubbornly towards Tim. “Why’s he like this?” asks Tim. “What happened to him?”

“Dunno. He’s been funny in the head since I met ‘im, bout a month ago. Far as I know, he was born like that.” The man shrugs and gives a hacking cough. “You know the kid?”

"He’s… He’s my cousin,” Tim lies. "We thought he was dead. It’s been months…"

It’s all he needs to say, really. The man doesn’t care to listen, just takes a swig from the bottle he’s holding. There’s so many sob stories in Gotham, especially this part of town. After a while it must become hard to care.

Tim decides it’s not a good idea to squeeze through the gap and intrude in Jason’s space. Jason’s entire body is tensed, ready to snap. But he has to try something.

Slowly, carefully, he stretches out his arm and reaches for Jason, hoping to pull and coax him out of there. He cringes in dread, feeling like he’s sticking his hand into a spiked bear trap that’ll go off any moment.

And he’s right—as soon as his hand closes around Jason’s wrist, the boy jerks, moving faster than Tim can react, and then every nerve in Tim’s hand and arm is  _screaming_. Jason has a firm grip on Tim’s hand, contorting his fingers mercilessly, bending them in ways they shouldn’t bend. It hurts so bad that tears well up in his eyes and he lets out a gasping cry.

He manages to yank his hand away and cradles it, breathing hard. He flexes his fingers and finds that no bones seem to have been broken. It had just  _felt_  like it.

"Jason, c’mon,” he pleads, growing desperate. “We gotta take you home. Find out what happened to you."

Jason doesn’t listen. He scoots a little farther away from Tim, deeper into his burrow.

"I won’t hurt you, I promise,” Tim says. “I want to help you. Everything’s going to be okay now."

The man in the corner has begun snoring, but for some reason Tim doubts that he’s truly asleep. Or maybe he’s just being paranoid.

“I— I’m going to take you to Bruce,” he whispers so only Jason can hear him, just in case. “He misses you a lot, and he’s… he’s going to be so happy you’re alive.” 

Tim almost crows in triumph when Jason shifts over, turning to look at him. There’s no emotion in his eyes, it’s more like he’s looking  _through_  Tim than at him, but it’s a definite reaction. Tim’s getting through to him, at least a tiny bit. He knew Bruce’s name would get a response. 

He reaches a hand towards the boy again, this time as a promise. “Just come with me, and I’ll take you to Bruce. He’ll know what to do.”

The last bit is more Tim reassuring himself. Bruce will know. He has to. He’ll figure out what happened and help Jason get back to normal, and then Batman and Robin will be protecting Gotham together again. Like it should be.

For another few moments Jason doesn’t move, he just stares at Tim, and then slowly he crawls out of his shelter and stands up, letting Tim lead him out of the alleyway.

 

—

 

He wonders if Jason is a zombie. 

Jason could be. He came back from the dead like one, and does act very… blank. Silent, sort of an empty shell. Zombie-like, definitely. He’s not decayed or falling apart, but maybe that’s because he wasn’t dead too long.

Tim pauses on the sidewalk. Jason stops, too. Tim’s been pulling him along by the hand and he’s been following compliantly. Right now there’s something Tim needs to check.

He pulls off one of his gloves and grabs Jason’s hand again. It’s a bit cold from night air—the wind tonight sure is chilly for summertime—but it’s not the clammy cold that Tim imagines dead flesh would feel like. He checks Jason’s wrist for a pulse and it’s there.

He feels bad that Jason’s hands are cold. He takes off his other glove and puts both of them on Jason instead.

If Jason’s a zombie, Tim reasons, then Jason would’ve just tried to eat him the second they met, right? There was no one else around. It would have been easy. 

Unless he’s not the flesh-eating kid. What other kinds are there?

Tim really needs to read up on some zombie literature. But until Jason tries to bite him, he thinks he can safely rule that theory out.

 

—

 

Tim calls Wayne Manor six times. He’s known the number for a long time now. He calls six times and leaves four messages.

_"Hi, Mr Wayne… Sorry to be calling at such a weird time—I really thought you’d be awake, actually. Um. Something amazing happened. I— I can’t explain it. I don’t even know how it’s possible. I think you’ll need to see it for yourself, because you’re definitely not going to believe me… Oh, and if you’re there and you’re screening this, can you pick up? It’s really important. It’s about Jason… Ok, I guess you’re not there, but— BEEP."_

_"I got cut off, but I just need to tell you to please call me back as soon as you hear this. If a woman answers, then that’s our housekeeper Mrs Mac. She can’t know about any of this or I’ll get into a lot of trouble, so make an excuse and ask to talk to me. Okay? Please call soon!"_

_"Sorry! I forgot to mention! This is Tim. Tim Drake. Just so we’re clear."_

_"Mr Wayne, I know I’ve called you a lot of times before about a lot of other things, but this time it’s really, really important. And time-sensitive. So I hope you aren’t ignoring me, because I need you to contact me soon or I… I don’t know what I’m going to do. Like I said, it’s about Jason. Bye."_

He hangs up reluctantly, then rakes a hand through his hair in frustration. 

Jason Todd— _Jason Todd oh god he still can’t believe it_ —is standing by the kitchen sink, watching him. Well, not really watching—he stares, but his eyes blank, glassy and distant. He’s here but he doesn’t seem  _present_.

He hasn’t spoken a word since Tim found him. It’s obvious that he can’t. He’s like an empty husk of the boy he used to be, but Tim hopes that Jason’s still in there somewhere. Surely Bruce will know how to fix it, or know someone who will know how to fix it. If Tim can just get in contact with him.

Tim doesn’t panic. Bruce is probably just busy with important Batman or Justice League things. He might be calling any minute now. He’ll definitely call before Mrs Mac shows up. Tim just has to be patient.

Jason finds the cookie jar and wolfs down four oatmeal-raisin cookies before Tim can warn him that they’re a bit stale. He practically inhales them, eating so fast he doesn’t even seem to chew, but still doesn’t drop or waste a single crumb. He must be really hungry.

 _Of course_  he’s hungry, Tim thinks, smacking himself on the forehead. He’s been living on the streets. It could be days since he’s had a good meal.

Tim can fix that. There’s some leftover casserole in the refrigerator he thinks Jason will like, with lots of vegetables and potatoes. It’s really good, one of Mrs Mac’s best recipes.

“I just realized…” he says, lifting his head out of the open fridge to glance up at Jason. “I forgot to, uh, introduce myself. I’m Tim Drake. We’ve never met before, but I know all about you and Bruce and Dick—I’ve known for a long time. So you can trust me.”

Jason doesn’t object. He doesn’t agree, either, but he’s still here and not trying to run away, so that has to count for something. Though it might have more to do with being in a warm house where there’s plenty of food.

It isn’t until the microwave is beeping that Tim realizes maybe the casserole wasn’t the best choice. Can Jason use silverware? It’s a bit too messy to eat with his hands.

Figuring he’ll test it out, Tim sits Jason down at the kitchen table and puts a fork in his hand. It takes a little trial and error. Soon Jason’s gotten the general idea but he’s still clumsy with the utensil, having trouble stabbing the vegetables, dropping a lot of them on the table. Tim swaps it out for a spoon and that works a bit better.

While Jason’s eating, Tim calls the manor three more times. He leaves another message  just to make sure they know how important this is. In case they haven’t realized yet.

 

—

 

"We have a problem, Jason,” Tim says. "I mean, we have a lot of problems right now but this one is really pressing, so just hear me out, okay?"

The sky has just started to lighten outside and Tim’s accepted that Mr Wayne won’t be calling him back tonight. It’s time for plan B.

It’s a terrible plan, hinging entirely on desperate hope. He’ll probably be found out by Mrs Mac in minutes. But he isn’t going to panic. Nope. He already told himself he wouldn’t, earlier. He takes a deep, calming breath and continues.

"You smell bad,” he tells Jason. “Now, I know it’s not your fault… I’m not trying to be rude. It’s totally understandable, considering how long you were… Actually, I’m not sure how long you were living on the streets but it’s probably been a few months, right?” 

He’s just guessing based on the shagginess of Jason’s hair and how skinny he is and how long ago he died, but there’s really no way for him to know for certain. He thinks if Bruce hasn’t called him by tomorrow he’ll visit the cemetery Jason was buried in and start searching for clues. He’s bound to learn something.

Tim gives Jason a reassuring smile. “But anyway, you really need to get clean because Mrs Mac is going to be here in about…” He glances at his watch and winces. It’s so late that it’s early. “…four hours to check up on me and do some chores. And even if I hide you really well, she’s probably going to notice the smell and think I snuck a stray dog or something into the house. Again. And then she’ll search, and then game over.”

Mrs Mac has a really good nose. She can always tell when Tim’s tried to cook for himself and ended up burning something. When he was younger he thought he could get away with keeping a cat by hiding it under his bed, but it peed there and she discovered it within an hour. And he always has to be really careful about keeping his distance from big fires during his nighttime outings so his clothes don’t stink like smoke.

"So, yeah, uh, big problem. Because you need to take a shower or a bath and I don’t think you know how to do that by yourself right now.” Tim watches Jason hopefully for a moment, because maybe he’ll make a sudden, miraculous recovery from his current state and Tim won’t have to deal with this. It doesn’t happen. “Um. This is going to be awkward."

Tim rummages through his drawers and closet to find some clothes that’ll fit Jason—all of Jason’s will have to be thrown out immediately, they aren’t a lot better than rags—and leads the other boy into his parent’s bathroom. It’s the biggest one in the house and has a roomy, glass-walled shower with a bunch of fancy spray nozzles that will make this easier.

But, thankfully, Jason seems to get the idea after Tim turns the shower on and helps him out of his hoodie. After that all Tim really has to do is put the soap in his hand, push him into the shower, then pull him back out a few minutes later and give him clean clothes. Jason moves robotically and doesn’t use any shampoo, but he seems to get most of the dirt and street grime off. Good enough.

It makes Tim think. Jason’s not completely helpless, not if he survived on the streets that long, stealing food and clothes. His jeans still have a security ink tag on them, he managed to snatch them right out of a store. That must have required some thought, however fractured. Jason knows how to do things. He just needs a push or a nudge here and there. 

Jason’s still in there. Tim’s sure of it, and it gives him hope.

 

—

 

He wonders if the scar on Jason’s head is the explanation for his resurrection. He notices it when he’s drying Jason’s hair with a towel.

It’s thin and white and slightly raised against his scalp. Off-centre, more to the right, and mostly hidden in his dark hair. It looks careful, surgical. Looks newer than some of the others.

“Did someone do  _brain surgery_  on you?” Tim asks, parting Jason’s hair to get a better look. He stares at the scar.

Crazy theories are already brewing in his mind—of medical experiments and Frankenstein’s monster and none of that can actually be true, can it? There has to be another explanation, right? He’s just jumping to conclusions?

Jason can’t answer any of his questions.

 

—

 

Tim decides he’ll sleep in his parents’ bedroom tonight and give Jason his room. Actually, at first he thinks about setting Jason up in the guest room like a good host, but before he can do that Jason slides into his bed, pulls the blankets around himself, and shuts his eyes. 

His breathing slows and he falls asleep in less than a minute, like the bed’s that familiar. Maybe it reminds him of  _his_  bed, in his room, in his home that he hasn’t seen for a long, long time. 

Tim wishes the phone would ring.

“Goodnight,” he tells Jason as he flicks off the light switch, even though it’s more like morning.

Jason was sleeping behind a dumpster before, Tim remembers. Behind a dumpster in a cold, damp alleyway. He can’t imagine what that must have been like, or how nice it must be to sleep in a real bed after that. He tries and it just makes him sad.

Tim has just about started dreaming, curled up tight in the middle of his parents’ huge bed, when he’s startled awake by the loud _thud-smASH_  of something breaking in the other room.

He opens the door, turns on the light, and finds his digital alarm clock in pieces on the carpet. There’s a dent in the wall.

He doesn’t understand. He looks at Jason, who’s just a lump under the blankets, and sighs. Gathering up the pieces, he puts them in a drawer for now. Maybe he’ll be able to fix it.

 

—

 

“Jason!” Tim says urgently, shaking the boy awake.

He slept in longer than he wanted to, and Mrs Mac will be here any minute. He glances at his alarm clock to check the time and remembers that it isn’t there. Jason broke it.

Tim yanks the blankets off the bed. “Jason, you have to wake up!”

He’s struck with a wild hope that maybe Jason will be better now—some good sleep can do wonders, right?—but there’s no recognition when he opens his eyes, no flicker of…  _anything_. He just shuts them again and hugs the pillow tightly when Tim tries to take that away, too.

Tim hauls Jason bodily off the bed, Jason still clutching the pillow, and guides him into the open closet. “Just for a couple hours, I promise. And I’ll come back to keep you company as soon as I can,” Tim says before he closes the doors. 

Tim quickly untacks a Warlocks & Warriors poster from the wall and rehangs it a few inches to the left to hide the huge dent Jason made with the clock. He’s just pushing in the last pin when he hears the sudden pounding and the screams.

He dashes over and opens the doors, and Jason stumbles out of the dark closet. Eyes wide and bright with fear. He breathes fast and his face is flushed. 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” says Tim. “Are you claustrophobic? I— I didn’t know.” 

He feels awful. He’s supposed to be helping Jason, not scaring him. And the worst part is that poor Jason probably can’t even understand what happened, just that he’s terrified. He’s all raw instinct, as panicked and tense as he was back in the alleyway, like a string about to snap.

“Hey,” Tim says softly, trying to calm the boy down. He places a gentle hand on Jason’s shoulder. It works, a little. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe. You don’t have to go back in there.”

Any second now, Mrs Mac could be opening the front door. Tim bites his lip, tries to think of somewhere else to hide Jason. 

Under his bed? No, that’s an even tighter space than the closet. The only place to hide in the basement is Tim’s darkroom, and that’s cramped too. The attic’s an option, but it might be tough to coax Jason up the ladder…

An idea hits Tim, and he quickly drags Jason into his parents’ bedroom, into their walk-in closet. It’s much bigger than his, it has a light switch so it’s not dark, and the best part is that Mrs Mac  _never_  goes into his parents’ room while they’re out of town. She cleans the room and does all their laundry right after they leave, and the door stays closed until the day before they’re due back, when she dusts. Tim knows this. It’s routine.

It’s the perfect hiding place. As long as Jason doesn’t make any noise, she’ll never find him there. Tim should have thought of it sooner.

And it’s just in time—he hears the crunch of gravel under tires and peeks out the window to see Mrs Mac’s car pulling up.

Tim’s thinking he’ll play it cool, wait a few minutes before heading downstairs, but right after Mrs Mac opens the front door she’s calling his name. He recognizes her tone. It’s the one that’s always paired with her crossing her arms in displeasure. 

She  _can’t_  have figured it out already, Tim thinks as he heads down the stairs. She can’t have. It’s impossible. It’s been  _seconds_.

“Goodness me, such a mess…” He hears her muttering as he reaches the landing. She’s by the front door, scowling down at patches of caked mud Jason had brought inside, and Tim wants to kick himself for not cleaning that up. He thought he’d covered all his tracks. “Tim, d’you want to explain where all this mud came from?”

“I, um, went out after dinner yesterday,” Tim says. He’s had to make up so many stories like this because of his secret night-time outings that he hardly has to think about it anymore. The lies come automatically. “Ives got a new video game, so I went over there, just for half an hour, I swear I was home before dark. But on the way back I took that shortcut through the playground and kinda. Slipped. Into some mud. I’m sorry.” He ducks his head apologetically under her stern gaze. “I put my clothes in the washing machine as soon as I got home,” he adds meekly, the perfect picture of a guilty kid trying to plead his way out of a grounding.

She frowns at him for a moment longer, then she shakes her head and sighs. “The next time you go out in the evening, you’ll call me first, won’t you? Your parents don’t like you t’be wandering about like that.”

“I’ll call,” Tim lies. “I promise.”

He eats his breakfast as calmly as he can, resisting the urge to glance anxiously up at the ceiling or over at the staircase. He’s worried he’ll hear Jason yelling again, but it doesn’t happen. 

Tim slips away upstairs to check on him, and finds him curled up on the closet floor, asleep. He’s made a sort of nest out of Tim’s mom’s fur coats and some extra quilts that’d been folded up on a shelf, and he seems comfortable enough. Tim decides to leave him be.

Mrs Mac is cleaning mostly downstairs today, and for that Tim’s relieved.  _This will work_ , he assures himself silently over and over until it becomes a mantra. It will work.

Trying to act normally, he plays video games. Browses the internet for information on zombies. Tidies his room. But he’s too nervous to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes. 

He jumps for the phone every time it rings but he’s always disappointed.

Mrs Mac leaves a sandwich out for Tim’s lunch. He sneaks half of it upstairs to Jason, along with a couple juice boxes, an apple, and a handful of cookies, while she’s busy watering the flowers in the front yard.

 

—

 

Mrs Mac is vacuuming in the upstairs hallway, right outside Tim’s room. And also right outside Tim’s parents’ room. Where Jason is hiding.

Tim sits at his desk, pretending to do some of his summer homework reading. He can’t focus. Just stares at the same page. The stress of it all makes him want to scream. Earlier he’d decided that keeping Jason cooped up in the closet was unnecessary, kinda rude, so instead he gave Jason free reign of the entire master bedroom. And right now he’s really regretting it.

Last time he left Jason, the boy was sleeping in his parents’ bed. All Mrs Mac would have to do is turn the doorknob, and that’s the end of it. There’s no good way for Tim to explain why he brought a mute, homeless boy into the house.

The door stays closed. She turns off the vacuum and goes downstairs to start dinner. It takes a long time for Tim’s heart to stop hammering against his ribs, for him to breathe easy again.

 

—

 

Tim takes the phone into his room to make a call. Except this time it’s not to Wayne Manor. 

It takes him a few transfers and a lot of time on hold, listening to the same bland instrumental music looped over and over, but he eventually gets on the line with Bruce Wayne’s secretary.

“Hi, my name’s Alvin Draper, and I was wondering if I could meet with Mr Wayne about an article I’m planning on writing for my school newspaper?”

“Mmm, one second.” There’s a click, and for one horrifying second Tim’s scared he’s going to be put on hold again—he really can’t bear listening to that music anymore, it’s already going to be stuck in his head all day—but she’s back in less than a minute. “Alvin… Drake, was it?”

He freezes, his mouth hanging open, and he almost drops the phone in shock. His palms are suddenly sweaty, his heart races, and  _how does she know?_! But he realizes,  _oh_ , caller ID. 

Then he thinks,  _she’s onto me; she knows I lied!_  But her tone isn’t a suspicious one, and Drake and Draper sound sorta similar so maybe she thought she just misheard him.

It’s okay, he tells himself as he fights the panicked urge that’s screaming at him to hang up immediately. He can still do this. Everything’s fine.

“…Yes,” he says carefully. “So, um, about that article?”

“Oh, right. Mr Wayne is always willing to do an interview. I’m just a little confused… Aren’t you on summer vacation right now?”

“Yes but, uh, I’m planning ahead. I know Mr Wayne’s very busy, so I figured I wouldn’t get an appointment until a couple months from now.”

“You’re a very conscientious young man, Alvin. What school do you go to?”

“Gotham North.” Another lie. It’s just a school he sees pretty often when he’s searching for Batman in the worst parts of town. He figures maybe it’ll get him extra leverage—high-achieving student reporter from an underfunded school. Nobody can say no to that.

“Wonderful,” says the secretary. Tim thinks he can hear the clack-clack of typing over the line. “Let me just take a look at Mr Wayne’s schedule for the next few weeks… What days and times work best for you? Any dates in mind?”

“Can I talk to Mr Wayne, first? I want to ask a few preliminary questions, just so I can go more in-depth when I actually meet him.”

“I’m afraid he’s out of the country, on a business trip to Berlin. I can get him to call you when he returns but that won’t be until he’s back in the office on Monday, maybe Tuesday.”

Tim’s heart drops. That’s so far from now. He’s going to have to go through  _days_  of this? Of this hiding and lying and stressing himself to shreds? 

And what about Jason? Tim promised to take him to Bruce. What if Jason gets impatient and stops trusting him? What if he stops being willing to hide quietly, or runs away?

Tim barely pays attention after that. He just keeps agreeing with whatever the secretary’s saying and ends up getting an appointment with Bruce Wayne sometime in the middle of August, he doesn’t care.

 

—

 

It’s Thursday, and Tim has a karate lesson. Mrs Mac is going to insist on driving him to it. She’s going to drop him off and then go get his parents’ car serviced and make a couple more stops before going back to the house to clean.

But that’s a problem. Tim knows he can’t leave Jason alone in the house with Mrs Mac around, it’s too risky. So he has a plan.

He calls in sick for his class. He gathers as much spare change as he can find for bus fare and tells Mrs Mac that he’s going to be hanging out with some of the other students after class, so she doesn’t need to pick him up. When she drops him off outside the building he waves and smiles, and as soon as her car is around the corner he sprints down the sidewalk. It’s only a few blocks to the nearest bus stop that’ll take him back home.

 

—

 

As Tim has learned the past couple days, Jason doesn’t like being grabbed by the wrist or arm and dragged around. He tenses. Won’t cooperate. Wrenches his arm out of Tim’s grasp or retaliates by nearly breaking Tim’s fingers, like in the alleyway on the first night.

The only ways to lead him around are to hold his hand or tug gently on his sleeve. With all the crowded sidewalks and crosswalks, it’s just easiest for Tim to keep a tight grip on Jason’s hand. He can’t let them get separated.

A few passengers look at them oddly when they first get on the bus, but then they must notice Jason’s vacant eyes, the slow, shuffling way he walks and how Tim has to guide him into an empty seat, because after that everyone’s being careful to  _avoid_  looking at them, to avoid staring.

Everyone except an old woman sitting across the aisle from Tim who tells him that he’s very responsible, taking care of his brother. She says his parents ought to be proud. Tim just smiles and nods and feels relief when she gets off at the next stop.

Tim can’t help being a little paranoid, jittery. He keeps glancing over his shoulder. Robin has lots of enemies. Scarecrow, Poison Ivy… if Jason was resurrected as some villain’s sinister plot or experiment, whoever’s responsible could be watching  _right now_. And Jason might have civilian friends who remember him—other kids from school, maybe—and if one sees him and recognizes him they’ll start asking a lot of questions.

Tim isn’t sure which would be worse to run into, enemies or friends. He hopes for neither.

As they’re getting off the bus Tim notices that, while Jason’s hand was limp before, now his grip is firmer. He’s holding onto Tim’s hand, just like Tim is holding onto his.

 

—

 

The grass is still wet from early morning rain, and it gets Tim’s shoes and socks damp as he walks through it. It’s a gloomy, grey day. He and Jason are the only ones in the cemetery.

Tim bought flowers at a supermarket on the way here, so he and Jason won’t look as suspicious. Two teenagers lurking around a cemetery—people might think they’re up to something. The flowers are a cheap, droopy bunch of daisies and carnations, a combination Tim knows his mother finds appalling. If there’s one piece of knowledge she’s tried to impart on him, it’s that peonies are the only tasteful option, everything else is an eyesore. (And also that,  _Tim, you should never be like your father and let the IRS walk all over you_. But the peony issue comes up a bit more often.)

It doesn’t take long to find the grave. Tim’s been here before. The headstone is dark, newly-cut granite and it has Jason’s name on it.

He lets go of Jason’s hand so he can kneel down to place the flowers by the monument and start investigating. This is where Jason is supposed to be buried. Tim needs to figure out why he isn’t.

But Tim doesn’t even know how Jason died, exactly. That makes this so much more difficult. All he has to go on is Jason’s obituary and some other news reports. He knows it happened in Ethiopia, and that there was an explosion. He thinks it had to do with a villain, probably the Joker, because Batman put him in the hospital not long after, but that’s only guesswork.

This mystery all boils down to whether or not Jason was actually dead when he went in the ground, and that’s just another thing Tim can’t know for sure. Surely Batman would have noticed if the Jason he buried wasn’t dead, or wasn’t really Jason—he’s a  _detective_ —unless someone craftier tricked him. Or unless Batman faked Robin’s death himself. But why? And why would Jason be living on the streets? It doesn’t make sense.

And if Jason really was dead… what happened after that? Did he wake up somehow and dig himself out? Did someone else dig him out and bring him back to life?

Tim rakes his fingers through the dewy grass, desperate for some clue. The grass over the grave looks the same as its surroundings, no odd bare patches to show that it’s been dug up recently. But it could have happened months ago, and it’s summer now. Grass grows quickly.

His hand bumps against something half-buried, small and metal and glinting between the blades of grass. He holds it in his palm. He knows exactly what it is—a cufflink. What he doesn’t know is who it belongs to. Fallen off one of the mourners, maybe, on the day Jason was buried. It could be Mr Wayne’s. Or…

“Jason,” he says, looking up. “Do you…”

Jason is startlingly pale. He’s shaking, his hands clenched into tight fists. Before Tim can say another word, Jason turns and runs, letting out harsh, gasping cries as he stumbles around tombstones and toward the wrought-iron gates.

“Jason!” Tim yells after him desperately, but he doesn’t look back. He’s already gone.

 

—

 

Tim searches for hours, walking block after block until his feet ache. By himself, on foot, he can only cover a couple neighborhoods, and as time goes by his hopes of finding Jason in this huge city get lower and lower until he’s trampling them into the sidewalk with every step.

His eyes burn with frustrated tears that he blinks back determinedly. He won’t give up, not yet. He still has about an hour before Mrs Mac expects him at home. He still has time.

Tim slows his pace, glancing around his surroundings uncertainly. He doesn’t come by this neighbourhood often, it’s newer and all the houses look the same. He follows a road thinking it’ll take him to a street he does know, but he’s wrong. Eight blocks later he’s walking by a park he’s never seen before, confused and wondering if he should double-back… but then he sees the boy in the bright green sweater sitting on the park bench, recognizable even at this distance. 

Jason. 

Tim runs across the grass, so relieved he feels like laughing. Jason doesn’t even look at him as he approaches, he just keeps staring forward at the kids on the nearby baseball diamond. Tim sits down next to him, babbled apologies tumbling out after pants and gasps as he catches his breath.

“I’m so sorry, Jason,” says Tim. “I shouldn’t have taken you there, I know. I just— I couldn’t leave you at home alone, and I really needed to check out the grave. For clues, to figure out how you’re here right now when you’re supposed to be…” He doesn’t want to say it. He looks down at his feet guiltily, digging the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “I just want to help you… but I’m doing a really bad job. I’ll do better, okay? Please don’t be mad at me—we won’t go back there, I promise.”

Tim gives Jason a reassuring smile. Jason lets Tim take his hand and lead him away from the bench, but this time he doesn’t hold Tim’s hand back.

 

—

 

Tim wonders if Jason’s a clone. 

It’s a theory he’s been considering, along with all the others. A supervillain could have gotten ahold of some of Robin’s DNA and grown a clone in a secret lab. Sometime after Jason died, the clone escaped and started living on the streets. 

It’s possible. More logical than ghosts or zombies or vampires, more scientific, but Tim’s still doubtful. This boy doesn’t seem like a copy of Jason, he seems like  _Jason_. He knows Robin’s fighting moves. He has scars on his arms and hands and back. One is visible right now, snaking up from under the collar of his sweater.

If he was a clone he wouldn’t have had that emotional reaction to his grave. He wouldn’t have trusted Tim just for saying Bruce’s name.

Unless he’s not a clone just by DNA. Unless whoever cloned him found a way to to copy his memories into the clone’s brain. It sounds farfetched, but so does every other option. And maybe the brain-cloning didn’t work quite right. This Jason could be a failed clone. That would explain why he’s so…. so…

Bruce will be able to know, Tim tells himself. Bruce will be able to tell right away if this is really Jason. Of course he will. They’re Batman and Robin. They’re partners. He’ll know.

 

—

 

Mrs Mac’s car is there when they get home. Tim has to sneak Jason around the house and hide him in the garden shed until she leaves.

There’s a message on the answering machine. Mrs Mac tells Tim as soon as he walks through the door. His heart leaps, until he finds out it’s not Mr Wayne. It’s from his parents.

He thought they were supposed to be in Buenos Aires right now—that’s what they told him a week ago. But in the message they’re talking about all the meetings they’ve been having in New Zealand, and how they’re going to bring him a souvenir. Last time they got him a t-shirt that was too small. They won’t make that mistake again this time, his dad says, laughing. They’ll buy him something cool.

Usually hearing messages from them makes him feel better, especially when they sound happy like this instead of tired, but today it doesn’t even make him smile. He still saves it to listen to again later.

 

—

 

That evening Tim sets Jason up on the sofa in front of a sci-fi movie—he hopes Jason doesn’t hate sci-fi… but it’s still a really good movie—and fires up his computer.

Tim has tried before, with zero success, to find Dick Grayson’s phone number. The former Robin’s distanced himself from Batman enough that he’s difficult to track down. Unlike Bruce, he’s no longer in the public eye, and he’s been careful to keep all his information unlisted. Tim’s discovered the name of Dick’s apartment building—he thinks it’s the right one—but he can’t find any phone numbers attached to it. And it’s not like he can travel all the way to a different city and back fast enough to keep Mrs Mac from noticing he’s gone.

The Teen Titans hotline, on the other hand, is easy to find. The only problem is that it’s completely automated. A recording of Beast Boy tells him to press one to report villainous activity, two to request autographed pictures, three to order official Teen Titans t-shirts…

Tim presses one and leaves a message, but he doesn’t have much faith he’ll be getting a call from them anytime soon—there could be hundreds of messages ahead of his. And he never did get a call back all those months ago, right after Jason’s death, when he’d wanted to talk to Nightwing about Batman.

 

—

 

Tim and Jason have the house to themselves the next day—Mrs Mac has errands and appointments and will only pop by around dinnertime. It’s great not having to spend every second worrying she’s going to open a door and scream about the strange boy in the house. And Tim’s felt bad cooping Jason up in his parents’ bedroom.

“There’s something I want to show you,” Tim says, leading Jason to his room and pulling out a thick photo album from under his bed. He sits next to Jason on the mattress, and the photo album is so big that it spans both of their laps when he opens it.

"See? They’re pictures of you and Batman. Well, not  _these_  ones, actually, but…” Tim turns the pages quickly to the year Jason started as Robin. “There. There’s you.” He points at photo of Batman and a smaller, curlier-haired Robin than the page before. Photo-Jason is laughing as he kicks a baseball bat out of a goon’s hands. Batman is a tall black silhouette in the corner, watching. “This is one of your first nights as Robin—I was really excited when I saw the news that Robin was back, so I had to go out as soon as I could to see for myself.” 

It had been an especially miserable night with wind like a cold knife, and around one o’clock it started pouring, but it was worth it. So worth it.

Tim flips through the pages, showing Jason picture after picture, hoping for some kind of reaction. A good reaction, like a smile or a nod. These are happy memories.

He has a lot of photos with Jason as Robin, probably twice as many than he has of Dick. As he got older it got easier to sneak out longer and more often. The album is where he keeps his best shots, the ones he’s proudest of, but he also has shoeboxes full of of photos, all meticulously organized by date, hidden in his closet and under his bed.

As he’s flipping he comes across some loose papers pressed between pages.

"What…?" He wonders aloud, unfolding them to see what they are. "Oh. I forgot I left these here…"

They’re notes from a couple of months ago. Tim had been using a photo of Jason shooting a grappling gun as reference for how to make his own, since he couldn’t find an actual working one to buy online. But he soon figured out that making one was way out of his means and he had to settle for a basic grappling hook and rope that hadn’t worked out quite as well as he’d hoped.

Beside the notes, sketched in the margins of the paper, are little designs Tim drew of Robin uniforms. Uniforms for himself. He flushes in embarrassment, even though he knows Jason isn’t aware enough to judge him right now.

"After you died, I sort of… I went to Mr Wayne and talked to him," Tim confesses quietly. "I told him everything, about how I figured out he was Batman and Dick was Robin, and then you were Robin. I was— I’m  _still_  really worried about Batman. After you died he seemed so angry. He…”

 Tim searches for the words, but he’s not sure he wants to explain to Jason how volatile Batman’s been lately. How quick he is to anger, how much force he hasn’t bothered to hold back anymore. He’s close to crossing a line, and Tim is scared of what it will mean if he does. 

“He took your death really hard. He needs you, Jason. He needs a Robin. I told him that. He said I was wrong and I didn’t understand, but I do. I  _do_  understand. I tried to convince him to work with Dick again, that it would help him. And when he didn’t agree to that I said— I said that  _I_  could be Robin. Maybe.” Just the memory of the coldness in the man’s eyes at that suggestion is enough to make Tim shudder. “He wasn’t… happy about that idea, either.”

That idea gnawed its own permanent place in Tim’s mind, though, which is funny because it’s something he hadn’t even considered before he was blurting it out in front of Mr Wayne in the cavernous, echoing foyer of the mansion, standing his ground in front of the man that inspired and frightened him most, and desperately trying to keep his voice from shaking.

It’s possessed him ever since. Every time Batman left a perp bloody and bound for the hospital before the police station, every time Tim overheard someone wondering what had happened to Robin—at school, on the news, on the streets—he was reminded of the simple truth that Batman needs a partner. Chances were nobody else was going to step up and help Batman. Nobody else even knew enough to be  _able_  to help. Only Tim.

"I was right about him needing a Robin, even if he wouldn’t face the fact." Or return any of Tim’s phone calls after that visit. "So I thought I could try to show him. By becoming Robin on my own. I wasn’t trying to replace you, I swear!” Tim assures Jason frantically, suddenly aware how bad it sounds. “I just want to help Batman before he gets himself hurt, or before he— before something bad happens. I’ve been training really hard for when I’m going to prove I can do the job. I even bought a grappling hook—not as high-tech as the one you guys use—and tried to swing from buildings with it… but I almost broke my ankle."

He cringes as he remembers those terrifying hours he spent panicking about how he would explain a broken bones to his parents the next morning. But thankfully it was just a bad sprain, and he was fine after a few days of icepacks and hiding his limp.

The next time he tried grappling up a building, he nearly broke his neck. Since then he hasn’t worked up the nerve to climb anything taller than a tree with it.

Tim sighs. “Turns out trying to be Robin was a lot harder than I thought.” He never gave up; he kept trying to get through to Mr Wayne, kept going to extra martial arts classes and sneaking out into the city to tail Batman as often as he could, but as for how to make the big leap forward into being Robin… he’s stuck at the drawing board. “But that doesn’t matter anymore, because you’re back! Batman is going to help you get better and then you can be Robin again and help him, just like before.”

And Tim is glad. The weight of a cape he thought he’d have no choice but to don has lifted from his shoulders. He’d never wanted that, anyway. He never really wanted to  _be_  Jason; he wanted to be Jason’s friend.

Tim goes back to flipping pages, watching Jason carefully for a reaction. Maybe he’s just seeing what he hopes to see, but for a split second there’s a clarity in his eyes, a spark of something that could be recognition as he looks at the photos of himself and Batman. But Tim blinks and it’s gone, the heavy-lidded, unseeing stare back in its place.

 

—

 

“You could be a wight,” Tim tells Jason, scrolling down another webpage. Even though Jason never responds, Tim likes to talk to him. He likes to think it helps, somehow. That Jason really is listening. “It says here that they’re a kind of undead that are, in most definitions, humans risen from the grave because of outside forces. I mean, you don’t totally fit into that category, obviously. You haven’t tried to drain the life out of me with evil undead powers, and you don’t look like a desiccated corpse… But I’d say you’re closer to a wight than a wraith or a ghost, since you’re corporeal. And it helps having a possible name for your condition, right? Other than zombie? Zombie seems kind of insensitive.” 

Even more helpful would be knowing whether the condition is mystical in nature or scientific, to better figure out how to get Jason back to normal. Tim’s just trying to cultivate his theories for now, until Mr Wayne calls him back. Then he can share these notes.

Tim glances up from his laptop. “What do you think, Jason?”

He left the TV on for Jason again. Before it was on a nature show about birds, but now onscreen there’s a special breaking news bulletin about the Joker’s latest breakout attempt from Arkham. Apparently it happened just an hour ago. The reporter is onsite at the asylum, interviewing the head of security about how his team managed to resecure the villain.

Tim frowns. Like the rest of Gotham citizens, he can’t help but get a nervous, twisting feeling in his stomach whenever the Joker makes the news. Once the newscasters segue into a story about parking bylaws, Tim manages to slide his eyes away from the TV screen, and sees an empty armchair where Jason’s supposed to be sitting.

“Jason?” Tim calls out worriedly, standing up.

Some noise from upstairs—nothing loud, just Jason moving around. Tim walks up the staircase. This is strange; Jason’s never wandered away from him in the house like this before.

There’s another noise Tim hears as he gets closer to his bedroom. Sounds like paper rustling, tearing. Tim hurries towards it.

“Jason? What are you—” Tim pushes open his ajar bedroom door.

He almost wants to scream, but it catches in his throat and he gags on it. He can’t make a sound, his entire body’s seized up in shock.

One of Tim’s carefully-organized boxes of photos, the one he kept under his bed, is spilled across the bedspread, the pictures torn into ribbons and strewn on the floor and bed and  _everywhere._  Hundreds of them.

Tim feels like he’s been the one ripped to pieces.

The photo album’s on the bed, too. Jason’s cheeks are wet with tears and he’s breathing harshly, nearly sobbing, as he rips out page after page. Tim shoves him aside and grabs the album away from him before he can do more damage. 

Hugging the mangled book to his chest, Tim looks in horror at the shredded and scattered remains of months of work. All those countless hours spent planning lies and risking life and limb to get the perfect shots and painstakingly developing each photo. They were important to him. Special, every single one of them. He’d put his heart and soul into collecting them. Jason is the only one Tim’s ever shared these pictures with, and now Jason’s ruined everything.

“Why?” demands Tim angrily. He knows he’s shouting, but he can’t help it—he’s shocked and hurt and madder than he’s ever been. Jason’s reaching into the pile of photos on the bed to rip up even  _more_ , and Tim grabs his wrist to stop him. “Why would you do this? What’s  _wrong_  with you?” 

He feels bad as soon as the words leave his mouth but there’s no chance to apologize, because the next second Jason’s arm is wedged against his throat, pinning him to the wall with enough pressure that he can’t  _breathe_. Jason’s face is so close to Tim’s that all Tim can see are eyes glazed with tears and pain, teeth bared in a snarl.

Tim fights against the hold, but he’s not as strong as Robin. Especially not a Robin with no rational thought, who’s been triggered into fury like a raw, tangled nerve that’s been prodded. There’s no reasoning with him. Tim is terrified that Jason’s actually going to choke him to  _death_.

It only lasts a few seconds. The pressure eases and Tim manages to wriggle out of the chokehold, gasping for air. Jason falls to his knees and curls into a ball on the photo-strewn floor, rocking back and forth with the force of his sobs, his face hidden in his arms.

Tim takes a few more deep breaths, relieved to be able to fill his lungs again, and tells himself it’s not Jason’s fault. He tells himself it’s not a big deal, he still has all the negatives sorted and hidden away. He can develop more photos. It’ll just take time. Sitting down on the bed, he opens the photo album with shaking hands. Only a couple of pages that were torn out took actual damage to the pictures. It’s not as bad as it looks.

Jason’s sobs quieten and then stop, his rage episode ending slowly as he slips back into catatonia. Tim kneels beside Jason—he doesn’t think the boy will try to hurt him now—and pats him on the back gently. 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Tim says, and he really does mean it.

Tim isn’t sure how much longer he can do this. He’s just… not  _capable_  of taking care of Jason the way Jason needs. He thought he could but it’s clear now that he really, really can’t. He tries and he only makes things worse.

Maybe the Joker’s near-escape will bring Batman back to Gotham sooner. Tim hopes so. He calls Wayne Manor just one more time.

 

—

 

Mrs Mac has Saturdays off, and Tim has one last idea of how to get in touch with Batman, so he takes the opportunity and drags Jason along to the central police station.

Actually, Tim has two more ideas of how to get in touch with Batman, but one of them is currently out of the question because Tim’s never managed to figure out who Batgirl is.

There’s no connection he can figure out between her and Bruce Wayne or either of the Robins, and when she was active she was a lot harder to follow around. She’s been gone from crimefighting for a while, but if Tim knew her identity then she’d be someone he could have called about Jason days ago. 

Unless the reason she disappeared isn’t because she retired. But he always hopes that she’s still alive and okay, somewhere in Gotham.

The police station is a busy place, and Tim and Jason have to sit and wait to speak to someone. The woman sitting beside them is wearing tall boots and has big tattoos of flowers covering both her arms, and she’s familiar. Tim thinks he’s seen her by street corners a lot during his nighttime Batman-tailing patrols. One time she asked him kindly if he was lost and offered to help him find a payphone.

To Tim’s relief, she doesn’t recognize him. She does, however, seem to recognize Jason, which is a problem. She’s spent a lot of time out at night near Batman and Robin’s usual patrol route, so she definitely could have met Jason as Robin more than once, and if she makes the connection…

“I can’t remember exactly where or when, hun, but I swear I’ve meet him before,” she tells Tim. “It’s bugging the shit— I mean heck, sorry, I didn’t mean to cuss in front of you kids. It’s bugging the heck outta me.”

Tim makes the typical excuse and says she must be confusing Jason with someone else. Jason’s his brother; he’s not well; he doesn’t leave the house often. She seems convinced.

There’s a free police officer sitting at the desk, and it’s finally Tim’s turn to go up. Jason’s being stubborn, though, and won’t budge from his chair no matter how Tim coaxes him. The lady sitting next to them notices and offers to keep an eye on him for a couple of minutes.

“Are you sure?” asks Tim.

“Totally. I’m going to be waiting here for a while, ‘til some detective shows up to talk to me about my boss. Dirtbag got himself arrested last night… and about time. Hope they lock him up for years.”

Tim nods, not sure which part he’s nodding with. Jason seems to like her, as far as Tim can tell. Which isn’t very far. At all. But he isn’t too keen on parading Jason in front of the policewoman at the desk.

“We only use the signal for emergencies, Alvin,” the officer tiredly explains after listening to Tim. “Even if we did turn it on right now, it’s the middle of the day. Nobody would see it, especially not Batman. He only works at night.”

“I know, but… You probably have other ways of calling him, right?” Tim asks, gripping the edge of the desk tightly. “Like— Like an secret phone number, or a… an e-mail address? An emergency button? Something?”

“Be nice if he made it that easy for us,” she answers, smiling wryly. “What’s this all about, anyway? Why do you need to talk to Batman?”

“I have, um, a friend. He’s in a lot of trouble, and only Batman can help. So it’s really,  _really_  important that I get in touch with him.”

“Whoa, kiddo. I’m going to need more information. Who’s this friend? Can I get a name?”

“I can’t— I can’t  _explain_  it, okay?” says Tim. He knows he sounds crazy. “Not to anyone but Batman.”

“Alvin, if your friend is in danger you should at least tell us what’s going on,” the officer says seriously. “I’m sure we’ll be able to help.”

Tim cringes inwardly. He planned out everything he was going to say but he never expected the police to actually get so concerned over his story. Right now he can’t remember what he expected, exactly, and he can’t think hard enough to keep his story straight because his brain is too busy screaming  _abort, abort mission!_  

“It’s a very complicated problem and I really wish you could help—you have no idea how much I wish you could help—but you  _can’t_  and I’m sorry and I just really need to talk to Batman as soon as possible,” Tim says, words rushing out in one breath. “If you can’t call him, that’s fine, I totally understand.”

He whirls around to leave before the confused police officer can reply—he knew this was a bad idea—but standing right behind him, blocking his way, are an older, greying man wearing a trenchcoat and a red-haired woman in a wheelchair.

“What’s this about Batman?” the man asks, frowning beneath his mustache. Tim recognizes him from the news. He’s the police commissioner. 

“Oh, hey, Commish. Have a good lunch?” The officer at the desk jerks her thumb at Tim. “Alvin here’s determined to talk to Batman. Said his friend is in a lot of trouble and Batman’s the only one who can help, but he won’t tell me anything else.”

“Nevermind,” Tim says quickly. “It’s nothing. It’s not important, I’m just going to—” He tries to step around the Commissioner, but the man places a heavy hand on his shoulder. Tim feels like he’s being arrested.

“Son, before you go, I think you should let us call your parents,” says the Commissioner. “Just so we can talk to them and let them know where to pick you up. Or, if you want, we can get an officer to drive you home. If you ask nice they might even let you try turning on the siren.”

His smile is warm and friendly, but Tim knows exactly why they want to talk to his parents and there is no way it’s happening. 

“No! No, that’s okay,” Tim assures them, slowly stepping away. “It’s no big deal. Really. I was just overreacting. Um. I just— I have to leave right now. Sorry.”

This was a  _very_  bad idea.

Tim darts around them, blurting out an apology as he accidentally bumps into the woman in the wheelchair. As he hurries through the waiting area he yanks Jason out of his seat without pause, dragging the boy by the hand towards the door.

He only looks back once, nervously, when he hears someone calling after him.

“Wait!”

It’s the woman in the wheelchair. Her eyes are wide with shock behind her glasses as she looks from Tim to Jason.

Tim doesn’t wait. He pulls Jason out the door and down the sidewalk as fast as he can.  Around a corner and then another. His heart is hammering against his ribs and he keeps glancing back over his shoulder to make sure they’re not being chased.

 

—

 

Jason doesn’t like being forced into running. After a few blocks he slows down, pulling back on Tim’s arm. Refusing to move any faster. Tim’s forced to slow down with him.

Tim thinks they’ve gotten far enough from the police station, anyway. They haven’t been followed. They’re safe.

And then Jason goes from slow to stop, right beside a hot dog cart on the sidewalk, and won’t budge an inch. It does smell really good—especially from the strong, wafting spices for the chilidogs—and they haven’t had lunch yet.

Tim buys them both regular hotdogs and urges Jason to start walking again as they eat—he wants to get to the bus stop as soon as possible. But he can’t shake the feeling that, for some reason, Jason is unhappy with him.

 

—

 

The caller ID is empty—completely blank, not even a number—which is odd. Tim’s never seen that before.

He answers it warily. “Hello?” 

“Hi, Tim. This is Barbara. I understand you wanted to talk about Jason.”

“How did you get this number?”

“Are you kidding?” she asks incredulously. “You left seventeen messages on Bruce’s home answering machine.”

“Right.” Tim swallows nervously, flushing a bright red that he’s glad she can’t see. “I, uh… who are you, exactly?”

“My name’s Barbara.”

“Yeah, but I meant—”

“I know what you meant. All you need to know is that I’m a colleague of Bruce’s. Anything you want to tell him, you can tell me.”

"It’s kind of hard to explain…"

“ _Try_ ,” she urges. “And don’t worry, Tim—this is a secure line.”

"Jason is— um, well…" He stumbles over his words, trying to think of the best way to put it. But he can almost feel her impatience radiating through the phone, so he steels himself and just spits it out. "Jason Todd is alive. I’m looking at him right now."

There’s silence on the line.

When she speaks again, her voice is quiet like she’s lowered the phone from her face. “I  _knew_  it,” she says softly, to herself. She sounds triumphant.

 

—

 

The door to the coffeeshop that Barbara chose as their meeting place jingles open, and Tim’s only a little surprised to see the woman in the wheelchair from the police station. He had a feeling.

"Jason," she says softly, touching the side of the boy’s face tentatively like she’s afraid he’ll scatter into dust. She smoothes aside his shaggy hair and takes a good, hard look at his face.

They stare at each other for a while, both expressionless. Jason’s eyes are blank and Barbara’s are measuring. Then her face breaks into a sad smile and she pulls him into a fierce, tight hug.

Jason remains stiff and still like a statue in her arms, and it makes Tim sad to see. He hoped that a heartfelt reunion would have been the perfect way to jog Jason’s memory, to break him out of his shell. But there’s no easy solution.

Barbara lets go of Jason. She takes off her glasses and starts to dry her eyes on her sleeve. Tim hands her a napkin that she accepts gratefully.

That’s when Tim notices a long slash of an old scar on the back of her hand. And then it all clicks suddenly. The bright red hair; the sharp, observant glint in her eyes… Tim knows who she is.

“You’re  _her_ ,” Tim says, awed.  _Batgirl_. He’s scared to say it out loud in case someone at another table overhears.

She frowns, glances around them, then motions them to move over to a different table closer to the wall. It’s right underneath a speaker and, while the music isn’t very loud, it’s enough to drown out their conversation if they speak softly.

"Yes, I am,” she admits. “Was."

They’re interrupted by a server come to take their order. Tim’s head is buzzing so loudly with dozens of questions he’s always wanted to ask her that the server has to ask him three times what he would like to drink. Barbara just orders him a hot chocolate.

"I always wondered why you stopped patrolling,” he blurts out once they can talk freely again. “I was worried… Was… Was there an accident?” His gaze falls to her wheelchair. “Is that why you stopped?"

"It was no accident,” she says simply. "And I retired from the role before it happened. I’d rather not get into this here; maybe later. Right now I want to talk about Jason." 

Tim told her most of it over the phone, but he goes over the story again now. More slowly, with more detail, answering her questions as best he can. It takes a while. 

He leaves out the part about the photo album—just for now, since it’s kind of embarrassing to admit he has it—but he tells her about Jason panicking in the small closet, about him running away at the cemetery, and about all his theories for Jason’s resurrection. He was worried she’d laugh at those. She doesn’t. She listens seriously, nodding often.

"And then we went to the police station because I thought maybe they’d know how to contact Batman, but… Yeah, you were there,” says Tim. “You know what happened."

“At first I thought it had to be a mistake,” she says. “I only saw his face for a second, and his hair is longer now. He’s taller. And it seemed so impossible. I  _still_  don’t know how it’s possible. He was dead. There was no doubt when we buried him.” Jason’s bangs keep falling into his eyes, and Barbara brushes them aside again and searches his face for the same thing Tim’s been trying to find since he discovered Jason in that alleyway. Answers. Clues. But there’s nothing there.

It’s still a mystery. Jason’s their only witness and he isn’t talking. 

“After you left,” she tells Tim, “I asked the woman that was waiting near you, and she said that the boy with you reminded her of a kid she knew from around Crime Alley a few years ago. That’s when I knew I had to look into it right away.”

"I’m sorry we ran away. I thought—"

"Don’t worry about it. Everyone at the station just had you pegged as a Batman fanatic, or a kid acting on a dare. They were a little annoyed, that’s all." She places her hand on Jason’s shoulder fondly and smiles at Tim. "You have no idea what this is going to mean to Bruce. To everyone. I’m almost scared to get my hopes up, in case he just  _disappears_. I’m scared there’s some sort of catch.“ A look of sadness crosses her face as she watches Jason stare forward at nothing through the big window next to their table. “Well, I guess there is one.”

"But Mr Wayne will probably find a way to help him, right?” asks Tim. “He can get doctors… and he’s part of the Justice League and  _they’re_  really smart, too. They’ve got people with telepathy and people who know magic. They can figure out what’s wrong.”

Barbara’s frowning. “I hope so.”

Tim doesn’t want her to be doubtful. He wants her to say that it’s no problem, that Jason is going to be just fine. He takes Jason’s hand under the table and squeezes it gently, waiting for Jason to squeeze back, for some kind of acknowledgement. Nothing happens.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Tim.” Barbara takes a sip of her coffee while Tim looks at her in confusion. “From Bruce,” she clarifies.

“Oh.” He shrugs, lowering his eyes to the tabletop and the napkin he’s slowly twisting into pieces. “Probably not good things, then.”

"I wouldn’t say that. A lot of very  _worried_  things. He thought you were going to sell him out to the media.” She almost…  _smirks_  in amusement at the memory. ”He was scared of you. More scared than he’s ever been of anybody before, I think. He considered getting Martian Manhunter to pay you a visit, but he couldn’t go through with it.”

"Really? Cool." He’s always wanted to meet Martian Manhunter… though he knows that encounter wouldn’t have boded well for him.

"He told me all about how you figured out the secret, the same night you told him,” Barbara recounts. “He wanted to warn me about you, in case you knew my identity, too.”

"I didn’t. I tried, but I couldn’t find it out. Otherwise—"

“—You would have called me about Jason,” she finishes. “Well, I suppose you know now. Bat’s out of the bag.” She smiles reassuringly. “It’s okay, Tim, I trust you. And even though Bruce doesn’t— _yet_ —he’s definitely impressed by how you deduced his identity. He’ll just never admit it. But  _I_  can. I’m very impressed. You’re a smart one.”

“Thanks. Um…” He bites the inside of his cheek to try to stop himself from blushing or grinning stupidly. “Where  _is_  Mr Wayne? I mean, I know he’s in Berlin, but is it actually a business trip, or…?”

“As far as I know, yes, it’s actually for the company. It’s a pretty important trip, so he had to take Alfred along to drive him places and make sure he has clean clothes and eats regularly and isn’t entirely helpless. But I’m not sure; he might have accidentally run into a… situation or two and decided to suit up. The uniform is always the first thing he packs.” She checks her phone for what must be the twentieth time. “I called him right after I called you. He was already on the plane home. He wasn’t scheduled to leave till it was morning there, but a problem back here—I’m sure you saw the story on the news—had him worried and he pushed it a few hours earlier.”

And immediately Tim feels even worse for doing something as risky as going to the police station and asking for Batman. He should have just waited a little while longer. But at least it all worked out in the end.

“He’ll be here soon,” Barbara says. It’s the best thing Tim’s heard in days. “He and Alfred are landing in Gotham in about three hours. We should go to the manor and wait for them.”

 

—

 

In the backseat of the car, Tim holds tight onto Jason’s hand as Barbara drives them through the tall manor gates.

The sun’s already dipped below the trees, casting the manor grounds in shadow. To Tim the unlit mansion looks spooky, dark and spiky and foreboding like something from a ghost story. The house had been intimidating enough in daylight, the first time he approached it to go talk to Mr Wayne. But to Jason it must look like  _home_. Or, at least, it will once Mr Wayne gets there.

Tim’s done about everything he can do. Now it’s up to Mr Wayne and Barbara and anyone they’re going to bring in to help Jason. It might take a long time, but Tim can’t help but believe that Jason will be okay, eventually.

He squeezes Jason’s hand and feels Jason squeezing back.


End file.
